


Gambling

by dmdiane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Lots of Books, M/M, Oblivious Mycroft, Post Season 4, Post TFP, Recovery, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, a bit of smut, non-canon, patient Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: Mycroft:For the first time in a month, he feels rested and well. Something has eased. Buying the piano three weeks ago was also turning some kind of corner. He’s done reacting and ready to return to his default state of action. He’s finally found his boxes of sheet music and he arranges them by composer in an antique lateral file he purchased for the exact purpose. Tomorrow he will sketch out his job's restructure and send it to Alicia, Garreth, and Edwin. Today he will test the potential for turning his friendship with Greg into a romance.Greg:For longer than he’d thought remotely possibly he’s managed to be underfoot, helpful, responsive. Noting that Mycroft likes him in rugby pullovers and Henly’s in the forest colors he’s adjusted his wardrobe accordingly.  Mycroft loves his hair and he’s let it grow to such disastrous lengths that he often looks like an overgrown Yorkie by day’s end. He has perfected the two-day scruff that’s perfectly balanced between the Yard’s restriction on a beard and Mycroft’s attraction to his facial hair. He’s been fucking careful. He’s been deliberate, damn it.





	1. Ready

**Author's Note:**

> I count no more my wasted tears;  
> They left no echo of their fall;  
> I mourn no more my lonesome years;  
> This blessed hour atones for all.  
> I fear not all that Time or Fate  
> May bring to burden heart or brow,—  
> Strong in the love that came so late,  
> Our souls shall keep it always now!
> 
> Elizabeth Akers Allen

Mycroft Holmes uses the required leave following his family’s implosion to advantage. The sheer ugliness of the weekend, from Sherlock and John’s haunting through Eurus’ elaborate torture and including his parents' furious disavowal leaves him hollow. Despite the overtures to mend the breaches, he politely removes himself from his family’s ancestral home. He gives over the management of his family’s money, with the exception of his own trust fund, to the family’s accountant firm. He transfers the security and surveillance of the Holmes family members to Alicia Smallwood. He gives his MI6 colleagues reassurances and allows them to pick his brain for every drop of intel or wisdom they can choke out of him. He wants to somehow earn his freedom from the shackles of dependency that once felt like meaning to him.

Mandatory medical and psychological evaluations take days and are invasive, resulting in anti-anxiety medication, twice a week therapy, and an indefinite leave while the few powers that be above try to decide what to do with him in the future. Her Royal Highness the Queen, his great aunt Lily, coddles and demands weekly visits. He exercises. He eats. He takes long meandering walks. His sleep is disjointed and he is often too distracted to read. But, he dutifully goes to therapy and discusses his childhood, his training, his current lack of relationships with his family, and his damn feelings.

The dark world of intelligence is endlessly curious about his sudden absence. Allies become competitors, enemies push boundaries. The result is the addition of close protection to his routine security protocol.

Close protection means he is literally never alone, while his enforced leave results in the loss of hourly or even daily contact Anthea, Alicia, Garreth, or Edwin. When engaged in high-stakes negotiations or analyzing a security threat, his colleagues are actually quite good company. His introversion is bothered by the constant presence of security while his political nature chafes at having so few to talk to. He may be amused by the conundrum one day, right now he’s simply isolated. The one true oasis in life are the regular meals shared with Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade. There is no shortage of people attending to Mycroft in the aftermath. Greg is the only one who doesn’t want anything other than Mycroft’s wellbeing.

In the face of unwelcome time off, Mycroft focuses his significant attention on creating a home in his new flat and sorting out his reactions to the trauma of the past month and of the past years. He feels remarkably fragile. He may’ve appeared to be the Ice Man, but apparently, he is the Glass Man. He smiles, slotting books into the bookcase. He is grateful his sense of humor remains intact. The Belgravia flat is hardly modern or large, but both bedrooms have an ensuite and the former third bedroom makes a fine office. The wood finishes are lovely, and Mycroft loves the floor to ceiling windows his security detail laments. 24-hour portage gives his staff a home base that isn’t in the flat. Security measures installed and hardened, he’s moved from the small flat he rents at the Diogenes.

This home office is less formal than he’s used to, perhaps it’s more a library, but he found leather chairs as soft as butter and rethought the room around them. The space is growing on him. He hums along with the Chopin Nocturne playing on the flat-wide sound system, another lovely upgrade from the family estate house. He splurged on the Steinway city grand piano gracing the living room. He’s been practicing scales and a few Brahms Intermezzi he remembers. The tuner comes today for a first tuning.

He’ll be fully unpacked by the weekend, though he still needs to think through artwork for the walls. He continues humming, a gesture recommended by his therapist that he’d hate to admit to anyone works quite well to buoy his moods. For the first time in a month, he feels rested and well. Something has eased. Buying the piano three weeks ago was also turning some kind of corner. He’s done reacting and ready to return to his default state of action. He’s finally found his boxes of sheet music and he arranges them by composer in an antique lateral file he purchased for the exact purpose. Tomorrow he will sketch out his job's restructure and send it to Alicia, Garreth, and Edwin.

Today he will test the potential for turning his friendship with Greg into a romance.  



	2. The Gamble

Greg Lestrade awakes at dawn. Saturday is as good a reason as any for getting up with the sun. He climbs from his bed and heads for the bathroom He steps into the hot water of the shower and sighs with the pleasure. When did a hot shower and wank become his ultimate refuge? Long before Vic left, that’s for sure.

He towels off and pulls on worn jeans and a t-shirt. He has dishes to do and a bathroom to clean. Then he might just take his book over to the coffee shop for a relaxed cuppa. His flat is the first place that’s felt like home in decades. His bookshelves are filled to brimming, the lounge is cozy, and even though he uses the dining table for work and eats at the bar, the kitchen is sunny and welcoming. He finds it hilarious that Mycroft bought the same leather chairs he has after sinking into one for tea once. They were frightfully expensive, a real splurge. He makes more money now and has no one else to spend it. Why not be comfortable?

He turns on ‘70’s rock, secondary school music, and dances his way into the kitchen. He has always been entirely too self-sufficient, one result of growing up in the care of the state. No parents or sibling and an ever tenuous kaleidoscope of foster families conspired to make him frighteningly independent. It is one of a surprising number of experiences he and Mycroft share. Though Mycroft’s abandonment was far more subtle on the surface, neglect, and resentment by parents who didn’t want him created the same kind of do-it-myself skills. A few times while listening to a particularly harrowing story from Mycroft’s childhood Greg has thought foster care the better option.

He’ll ask Mycroft to go book shopping with him tomorrow. He’s been reading up on the history of London’s infrastructure and architecture and two weeks back they’d located some used bookstores to explore.

Kitchen and bathroom cleaned, Greg grabs a jacket and his current book. He takes the stairs down to street level at a jog just as the building’s front door opens and Mycroft enters the foyer as if Greg’s conjured him.

"Mycroft." A warm lick of pleased surprise washes through his chest.

"I took a chance I’d find you home." Mycroft grins. "I see I nearly missed. You’re on your way out. 

“To get coffee.” Greg grins. He loves looking up to find Mycroft unexpected, coming toward him. Somewhere between Sherlock’s ‘death’ and return Mycroft arriving became the highlight of Greg’s otherwise relentless routine. His grin widens. “Join me?”

“I would be delighted if it’s not an imposition.”

Greg tilts his head, his eyes shining with humor. “Says the man who just turned up on my doorstep. Don’t be ridiculous.” He takes a book from his pocket. “If you’ll join me I won’t be needing this.” He takes several steps up and slides the book across the hallway floor to rest at his door jamb.

“You aren’t worried that won’t be there when you get back?” Mycroft lifts a brow.

“If someone so desperately needs a history of the underground, they are more than welcome to it,” Greg laughs, shaking his head. “Will you come?” He’s reached the landing and glances up.

Dark brown eyes meet Mycroft’s gray gaze and catch. It is this warm gaze of clear welcome that sets Mycroft’s insides aflutter with potential. “Lead on.” Mycroft opens the door to the street.

Greg hesitates at the stoop beside the requisite shiny black sedan. “As long as we have a ride,” he begins, “what do you say to St. James’ Park?”

The weather is crisp and fine, a thin spring sunlight spilling over the pristine walkways and glinting off the water. They’ve traded updates on the time that’s past since they saw each other last two days ago. After procuring coffee for Greg and tea for Mycroft at a kiosk, the pair falls into step at a slow stroll. For all that he loves London, Greg is a Somerset boy at heart, always longing for the outdoors and the water. In a park, any of the many they’ve visited this month, his walk is lighter, his shoulders farther back, chin higher. The vigilance of twenty years of police work is never entirely gone, at least not that Mycroft has seen. Yet. But, the closer they get to the lakeside, the more the wariness lifts. Companionable silence rests between them as they walk.

 Mycroft feels when Greg’s attention shifts from savoring the out of doors to rest on him. The steady regard has a comforting weight and depth. Mycroft feels more real than he ever has when Greg looks at him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Greg indicates a bench near the lake where they sit.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Mycroft answers. One card. Face up on the table.

Greg’s paper cup stops short of his mouth. His eyes widen and, most satisfactorily, his pupils expand, those eyes going almost black.

Mycroft lifts a shoulder. “Seemed silly when I might be able to have your actual company.” The implied spontaneity is only slightly disingenuous; they both know he can’t go anywhere without at least the minimal  fanfare of security arrangements. But, it’s not a lie. He is caught in Greg’s gaze and there really isn’t a finer place to be.

“Mycroft, that sounded a lot like you flirting with me.” Greg’s tone is light although his expression is assessing.

“And if I am flirting, as you say?” A second card. The next highest.  

“That’d be… I didn’t… well, yeah, really lovely, yeah. Wait. Is that on offer?”

“Very much so. I hope for the both of us.” The final card.

“Very much so.” Greg mimics Mycroft’s cool delivery, utterly belied by the twinkle in his very pleased dark eyes.

There it is, a straight flush, the rarest hand dealt and won. Mycroft feels his cheeks heat with the headiness of possibilities opening.  “May I spend the day with you?” Mycroft asks. “The piano tuner is coming this afternoon at two, but otherwise I have no set agenda.”

“Yeah. Yes. That’d be terrific. I’ve only planned the laundry and it can wait.” Greg cannot think of a better way to spend the first day of his weekend. “I was going to call you for the bookstore.”

Brown eyes meet blue, open and clear, mutual assessment filled with relief and delight. Suddenly it no longer matters that they are middle-aged men long in solitude and cautious with their hearts.

 


	3. Finders

The bookstore is old, crammed with shelves, shelves crammed with books of every age and sort. It smells like heaven. Mycroft heads to the poetry section while the proprietor, a collector, shows Greg to the books on London’s history. Mycroft listens to the rumble of Greg’s voice exclaiming over something as the two converse. He intends to look for Auden, he’s badly wanted a first edition of _Look, Stranger!_ to pair with his contemporary copy of _On This Island_. But any Auden will be delightful. His retreat to reading poetry has to do with his scattered attention span these days. The resonance of Auden’s work is utterly different as an adult who has lost so much than it was for a young man. As a young man he’d concurred with Auden’s revision of _September 1, 1939_ “we must love one another and die.” Now he finds he much prefers the original line, struck from the poem upon republishing; “we must love one another or die.” His cynicism not so much gone as enjoined by the spark of hope. Not loving has indeed killed him and he longs to have life breathed back into his soul. The collector has offered to look for the book for him. 

He finds the poetry stacks, all the while acutely, ridiculously, aware of Greg’s presence at the back of the store. He browses, tempted as always by an edition of Hamlet, worthless, but one he doesn’t have. He hears a very small sound and takes several steps towards Greg before realizing he’s heard one of the myriad small sounds Greg makes in lieu of words, the imprecise man, one of the small pleasure sounds of which he’s grown quite fond. When did he catalog these tiny gestures of communication?

“What have you found?”

Greg wears a smile wide enough to show his dimple and not his teeth. When he looks up the teeth flash full wattage. “Look at this.” He holds out a thick folio of… Mycroft frowns at the pile of musty paper… good lord, hand-drawn maps.

“These schematics of the original town include the first electrical grid.” Greg leans on Mycroft, pointing. He keeps talking, something arcane about the first transformers and power lines. Mycroft accepts a small portion of his weight, Greg’s back against Mycroft’s chest, and marvels at the details of change in this relationship. The curve of Greg’s shoulder is before him and Mycroft rests his chin. Greg makes another quiet pleasure sound, a new one, and leans back a bit more. Somewhere between St. James Park and here, they’ve become lovers. Certainly not in a literal sense, but maybe in the best sense. It’s everything he can do to resist brushing his lips on Greg’s neck.

They browse the bookstore for two more hours, the folio of maps clutched tightly in Greg’s hands. The maze of the tiny shop has Mycroft’s security detail reverting to guard entrances and exits. There’s no one else in the shop. The delight of turning a corner to find Greg’s smile again, or looking up to see him leaning on a near bookshelf is indescribable. Where Mycroft flirts with wit, Greg flirts with his body. A lean, a lear, a touch, a grunt, a glance. Mycroft had no idea what he unleashed in the park. The quirk of a brow, the dip of that dimple, the touch of tongue to his lips. Greg is a kaleidoscope of attention, a sustained invitation. It never crossed Mycroft’s mind that heretofore Greg had been restrained. Apparently, he had. No longer.

They linger over lunch dissecting their relationship from the first meeting. In the prism of attachment, every moment they’ve spent together looks entirely new. They revise knowing one another with the understanding of present affection. They arrive at Mycroft’s flat to meet the piano tuner feeling sated.


	4. Keepers

In Mycroft’s kitchen, Greg spreads his maps on the kitchen island, content to examine them in detail. The silvery fluff of his hair stands on end now from absent minded finger combing. Sturdy black reading glasses perch on his nose, slightly askew. The third time Mycroft drifts near with excuse of apologizing for the tedium of the tuning Greg grips his tie and tugs him close.

“I’m fine.” Greg growls. “I like it. Stop.” His expression turns speculative and Mycroft lofts a brow. Greg pulls him in for a kiss so tender and so sweet it can only be the beginning of something.

The caress of warm firm lips is nothing like Mycroft expected. Reality collapses into the touch of their mouths until there’s nothing else. Greg’s attention reaches under his sternum, his heart aches with emotion. He cups Greg’s jaw and tilts his head to deepen the contact, terrible with the need for this, so suddenly intense it hurts. He steps closer, brings their chests together, done with waiting he drinks this kiss with his whole heart. 

“Myc.” Greg murmurs against his lips.

Mycroft has never considered anything as brash and uncalculated as the impulse to take this man on his kitchen counter, now. He swallows. “I had no idea.” He admits.

Greg touches his own lips in a gesture so unconscious it makes Mycroft’s stomach clench with fondness. “God. What’d you do to me?”

Mycroft pulls back, smoothes a hand slowly down the front of his waistcoat. “Less than an hour.” He promises. He turns away while he still can and retreats to the office. He had not predicted their first kiss would be in his kitchen to the insistence thump of a low g sharp. Nor had he foreseen the combustion, good lord, his heart seems trying to escape his ribs. For the first time in many, many years Mycroft senses he may be in over his head.

Greg’s arousal burns along his bones. The lines and letters under his hands swim out of focus as he forces himself to stand still. The urge to follow Myc, to tackle him, is ridiculously strong. Mycroft Holmes is not a man to tackle. He closes his eyes. _Christ, Greg, reel it in. The most powerful man in England expresses interest in you and you regress to seventeen._ He carefully gathers the papers he’s spread across the marble counter. _But, finally, fucking finally._ His cautious stalking of the elusive elder Holmes brother has brought the man within reach. _Do NOT fuck this up, Lestrade._ He blows out a breath and opens his eyes. He takes in the kitchen’s gleaming surfaces in a conscious effort to rein his galloping senses. He did not arrive at this moment by blundering about.

 Sherlock twigged to him ages ago, of course.

_Two years ago_

_Greg and Sherlock sit across from one another at a nasty cafe drinking excellent coffee and waiting. There’s a rave winding up in the warehouse across the street where they have a more than decent chance at finding and arresting a serial rapist who moonlights as a drug dealer. Donovan, Dimmock, Harkins, and Watson have gone inside to surveil the crowd and identify the suspect. Both Sherlock and Greg are too distinctive looking to do that kind of crowd work well. For very different reasons they both tend to attract attention._

_Twenty minutes ago Mycroft Holmes glided by in a sleek black car and gave them deep background on the sponsors of this particular rave and the likelihood of a fairly dense armed presence in the building. Greg relayed that information to the team inside while Sherlock and Mycroft bickered._

_Greg gave up wondering how Mycroft decides which Met ops he deigns to grace years ago. He first thought it was keeping an eye on his brother.  But, occasionally he’d show up with information even when Sherlock was off doing something else. And between long hours of work and an unhappy marriage, Greg has too little time to really study it. He has, however, started wondering about Mycroft’s personal life, if he has one. The man is drop dead gorgeous grace in motion. Buttoned up and stern while at the same time lithe and funny. Greg badly wants to know what the man does in his free time. If he has any._

_“Don't bother.”_

_Greg glances over at Sherlock. “What are you on about?” They haven't spoken for fifteen minutes._

_“You're wondering about my brother’s sexual availability. Don't bother.” Sherlock continues typing on his phone. “He hasn’t been available since his husband was killed. And you're still married. Stop it.”_

_Greg can’t figure out where to start. “What the hell Sherlock?” Why is he paying any attention to who Greg ogles anyway? He doesn’t even get along with his brother. And when, no, how, how did he determine that Greg’s sexuality is fluid? At least they’re not in a room full of people. Sherlock announcing Vicki’s infidelity at the Christmas party was severely humiliating._

_“Dull.” Sherlock drawls._

_Well, yes. But, it’s a lot to take in. Mycroft was married to a man. Who died. Was killed. Greg’s thoughts tumble over one another. The information makes Mycroft human in myriad ways. Fantasy Mycroft has always been a bit of a double O to Greg’s thinking. This new information intensifies the image._

_“God. Stop.” Sherlock whines. “You’ll break your brain and then what good will you be to me?”_

Greg grins into mid-air with the memory. He’s sure that was the moment he’d actually begun leaving Victoria. It’d taken far longer than he’d wished to extract himself from his marriage. Regardless of her inability to keep her knickers in check, Victoria liked being married to the law. She fought him on the divorce and isn’t above still trying to get something from him occasionally. He dismisses her from his thoughts.

In the wake of the divorce, Greg issued Sherlock the only serious threat in their history. Say one word to anyone about my feelings for Mycroft and I tell your mother about the drugs. Because Greg knows to his marrow that Mycroft is not to be pursued. The only viable option is for Mycroft to pursue him.

For longer than he’d thought remotely possibly he’s managed to be underfoot, helpful, responsive. Noting that Mycroft likes him in rugby pullovers and Henly’s in the forest colors he’s adjusted his wardrobe accordingly.  Mycroft loves his hair and he’s let it grow to such disastrous lengths that he often looks like an overgrown Yorkie by day’s end. He has perfected the two-day scruff that’s perfectly balanced between the Yard’s restriction on a beard and Mycroft’s attraction to his facial hair. He’s been fucking careful. He’s been deliberate, damn it. 

And, if he can keep from pouncing on the man in the hallway, it’s finally happening. Now. Greg’s emotions veer dangerously towards torch song territory and he grips the edge of the marble to yank himself back to any semblance of sanity. He focuses on the persistent repetition of notes an octave apart. Greg shakes himself loose and wanders toward the piano and the distraction of having a tradesman in the house.


	5. Won

Mycroft attempts to calibrate the thrum of desire against his customary poise when Greg passes the door. Joining him in the lounge with the piano tuner might quell the spike of want that flared at their kiss and has not abated. Their first kiss. He’d nearly forgotten the sweetness of a kiss that is both invitation and welcome, endlessly unfinished.

The piano tuner is done and admires the piano while confirming the follow-up appointment for five weeks from now. Mycroft hopes the man doesn’t feel shooed from the flat, but it’s a close thing. When he turns to Greg the man stands beside the piano, two fingers caressing a b-flat key.

“Just how often do you have to have a piano tuned?” Greg wonders aloud.

“A new piano needs several tunings and consistent play for the first six months.” Mycroft can’t figure out why they are discussing the piano at this very moment. “After that, every couple of years. Unless you move it. Or stop playing. Or…”. Now, he is rambling. Greg looks at him with warm brown eyes and a soft mouth, the very image of interest. He is perfection, hair tousled, jeans hugging his hips, the navy blue rugby shirt fit across his chest, Mycroft wants a picture of him just like this.

Greg moves a step closer and Mycroft realizes he doesn’t need a picture because he’s here, less than a deep breath away. He gives silent fleeting thanks for the kiss in the kitchen because it means he can finally just take hold of Greg’s shirt collar and pull.

Their mouths meet in a hungry collision of lips, tongues, teeth, and breath. Mycroft’s hand slips up into Greg’s hair, as soft and dense as he’s imagined. His other hand comes to Greg’s cheek and tilts his jaw, deepens the kiss. Greg’s gasp pushes their chests together and Mycroft’s greed for the man slips its leash with a growl. His hand falls to Greg’s hip, fingers digging with possession. The next gasp is accompanied by a rumble of approval from deep in Greg’s throat. Mycroft leans back. “Bed.” He says.

Greg’s eyes open, his lips curving in a grin. He weaves his fingers between Mycroft’s and Mycroft tries to recall the last time he held hands with someone.  He pivots and tugs Greg down the hallway.

In the bedroom doorway, Mycroft gives in to the need to kiss the man again. He presses him to the door jamb, keeping his mouth gentle. He wants to worship the body in his arms. He trails his mouth down Greg’s jaw, over stubble that is ridiculously silky, to his neck. He presses a kiss under his ear. “You are exquisite.” He murmurs. The shiver that runs through Greg’s body is a delight. He sets his teeth into the muscle where neck meets shoulder. “Delicious.” He says, softly. Another shudder confirms the effect of his voice. He chuckles darkly against Greg’s throat and the ensuing low whine is irresistible. His hands drift under the hem of Greg’s shirt, seeking skin. When Greg’s arms rise to rest on his shoulders and allow access, the relief and pleasure mingle to create need and Mycroft’s hips rock. He feels Greg’s answering hardness against his thigh and chases that friction for a moment. 

Greg’s belly is smooth and warm and alive. Mycroft traces up the ladder of ribs to grip his flank and press closer, closer still. “You smell wonderful.” He buries his nose in the crook of Greg’s neck and inhales a faint smell of Greg’s soap, the tang of shampoo, and the low scent of the man himself. Greg surges up, snares his mouth for another kiss, this one thirsty and deep.

“God, Myc, I would love to have you in me.” Greg murmurs.

Mycroft’s knees soften at the words. “Yes, please.” He walks them to the bedside.

A nudge behind his knees is the only warning Greg gets before he tumbles into a cloud of satin and Mycroft stretches beside him all lithe long limbs and heat.

Mycroft frames Greg’s face with his hands and stills. He’s is closer to being overtaken than he can recall being in the past. He plants a firm closed mouth kiss on Greg’s lips. “We should…”

“Yeah.” Greg’s voice is low. 

“There is lube, no condoms. I haven’t…”

“S’okay, love.”

“We’re both clean, of course. If you trust…” Mycroft could fall into these eyes, now earnest. It occurs to him that if he does, he’ll never resurface. It may be too late already.  

“I probably don’t want to know how you know that.” Those eyes narrow with mischief.

“Well. I had been considering. It seemed prudent to…” Mycroft huffs.

Greg’s laugh interrupts him.

Mycroft frowns mock annoyance. “I prefer understanding the lay of the land, Gregory.” 

“You planned this. Planned for this and managed, god knows how, to check my status. Planned but didn’t get condoms.” Greg teases 

“I wasn’t…” Mycroft butts his forehead against Greg’s chest before looking up again. “Yes. I planned, but I hadn’t thought this would happen now. Happen so directly. You surprised me.”

“Alright. Not dreaming then.” Greg touches his thumb to Mycroft’s bottom lip and strokes.

“Pardon?”

“Thought I might be dreaming all this loveliness. But that was so Mycroftishly romantic I can hardly stand it.” He presses his thumb to Mycroft’s lips. “You thought I’d say no.” He whispers. “As if I could.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. “That was a possibility.” He admits.

“I trust you, love. So very much.” Greg says.

Mycroft’s chest and throat clog with affection. He is overrun with desire. If he will only have one lucky hand in life he is unendingly grateful that it is Gregory, here and now.

He knows Greg hasn’t been with a man in decades and so he forces himself to take the very best care. He uses lots of lube and an easy pace. The joy of watching Greg surrender to his ministrations is intoxicating.

Greg lies back and tries to reckon the pleasures of long fingers, strong, being touched on the inside. He hasn’t forgotten the intensity of being with someone larger than he is, the graze of late day stubble on his skin, dusting of hair everywhere. There’s really no more visceral experience other than being shot.

“Here,” Mycroft whispers, his own desperation stealing his voice, slipping three fingers out. He flips them, enjoying Greg’s gasp. He sits back on the pillows. “You’ll have more control this way. Here.”

Greg groans as he sinks down on Mycroft’s cock, rocking down, inch by slow inch. He is tight and hot and locks his hands at the back of Mycroft’s neck 

The sight of Greg in his entirety takes his breath away. He can only stare. Honey colored skin stretched so beautifully over the most generous heart. Mycroft bends his knees, cradling, gives him something to lean back on and between them they hit a pitch of intimacy, muscles flexing together. Greg stares back, eyes nearly black in the soft light, dazed and rapturous. Mycroft measures his breath, his heart pounding, unwilling to get lost to orgasm until Greg has come all over him. He grips Greg’s cock with a slippery hand, stroking in rhythm. Greg’s head goes back on a roar and thick white ropes of come stripe Mycroft’s chest, neck, chin. A gorgeous blush blooms on Greg’s chest and rises to his cheeks, his voice breaks as he comes apart beautifully, back arching, knees gripping Mycroft’s ribs. Mycroft feels Greg’s heartbeat in the clench on his own cock and that does it, shoves him over the edge into blinding white bliss.

Greg folds into Mycroft’s arms, his face presses to his shoulder. Mycroft calms, his stomach and ribs ache in the best ways. Greg bestows gentle kisses to the curve of his neck, breath hot. Awareness eases back slowly. They hold one another, wet with sweat and come, catching their breath. Mycroft feels Greg’s muscle gather and he lifts, eyes meeting. Greg’s expression, raw trust and love, reaches inside Mycroft and twines, binding them as surely as words. His smile is slow and dazed and Mycroft feels an echoing smile on his own lips.

Greg sinks back down for a kiss, Mycroft’s softening cock slipping from him. “I can’t thank you enough for that.” His voice is rough and quiet.

“More than half that was you.” Mycroft kisses the corner of Greg’s mouth. “Amazing creature.”

Greg has melted onto him, cheek snugged to his shoulder. He mumbles something that isn’t English, but sounds like dissent. Mycroft laughs. Greg makes more complaining sounds and Mycroft deciphers “shut up” and “sleep” in the slurry mix of consonants and vowels. Mycroft wants nothing more than to tuck him into bed with kisses and soft words. But, they are sticky. And, he’s not sleepy in the least. He tilts, rolling Greg onto the bed.

“I’ll be right back.” He takes a moment in the loo to wipe himself clean, or cleaner. He takes a second damp washcloth back and wipes Greg off from chest to groin. Greg sighs. Mycroft admires his heavy shoulders, lightly muscled chest, trim belly and truly glorious cock, all glistening from the warm water on the cloth. He pulls up Greg’s knee and strokes his crease and up under his bollocks. At this, Greg opens an eye.

“Mmmm. Sweet.” Greg offers on another sigh. “Thanks.” He closes his eyes again. “Lemme have a mo’.” He takes the washcloth and drops it off the side of the bed, pulling at Mycroft’s hand. “C’mere. C’mere.”

Mycroft isn’t sure if he’s more stunned by the soiled cloth on the floor or being called sweet. The momentary disorientation allows Greg to pull him down into the covers again. Greg wraps around him, an arm over his chest, a leg entwined, face nuzzling into his neck. Mycroft can’t help but shuffle fully into the embrace.

“Mmmm. Better.” Greg kisses his jaw. “Yeah. Good. 

Mycroft drops a gentle kiss on Greg’s forehead, all he can reach in the moment. He surrenders to curve around Greg’s torso. Greg’s breathing deepens and slows into sleep. Mycroft closes his eyes. He replays their day, tucks images and sensations safely in memory for preservation. His plan succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. What felt a gamble appears to have been a sure thing. His armful of policeman begins to snore softly. He doesn’t expect to fall asleep, but the cocktail of chemical satisfaction ambushes him before more than seven minutes pass and he drifts into a blissfully peaceful doze.

Greg slides up to wakefulness in a cocoon of comfort and contentment. Surrounded by appallingly nice sheets and a warm Mycroft under his arm, Greg lets the immense satisfaction dance through him. He stretches around a yawn and feels Mycroft come awake beside him. “Hello, gorgeous.” He offers. He trails fingers through Mycroft’s mussed hair enjoying the slight curl.

He traces fingers over Mycroft’s brow and down his nose, which earns him a grunt. He taps his chin and runs a thumb over his full bottom lip. He slides his open hand, palm flat, over Mycroft’s throat and collarbones to where curly auburn hair dusts from collarbone to belly in a tapering path to the nest of coarser hair cradling Mycroft’s cock.

Greg’s own cock stirs with the wonder that is touching Mycroft. He kisses the man’s shoulder and licks over the gold freckles that grace the pale skin. Mycroft is so fair Greg feels reluctant to take him outside again. No wonder the suits. “We need a shower.” He says.

Mycroft smiles. “I believe you also have laundry that requires attention.”

“What time is it?” Greg has no idea how long they’ve slept, but it’s dark outside now.

“It’s just after six,” Mycroft says. “If we shower together and pick up take out on the way, we can do your laundry while we watch a movie this evening.”

Greg chuckles. “That sounds good.” He unwinds from Mycroft reluctantly. He props up on his elbow to gaze at Mycroft’s face. This is what he’s wanted for years. “But before we do, I should confess.”

Mycroft’s brow flickers. “Oh, my. Confessions so soon?”

Greg hears a trace of wariness in his voice. “Twelve years isn’t so soon. I’ve wanted you forever.”

Mycroft blinks. “Alright then. What is this confession?” He leans up and mirrors Greg’s pose.

“That was it. I have wanted you for years. I’m just so damn grateful we’re finally here.” Greg licks his lips. He’s suddenly on the cliff of emotions he’s nurtured alone and feeling breathless.

Mycroft looks back at him across the space of inches for so long he almost fears he’s overstepped. Only the incredible fondness of the gaze keeps him still. Greg breathes carefully, aware that having gotten what he’s so long sought, he’s lost his cool entirely.

“I could do this for the rest of our lives if you’ll have me.” Mycroft chooses the larger concern to answer. “I got nothing up my sleeve. I want you to have me and me to have you. If you’re not careful I’ll never let you go.”

Exaltation floods through Greg in a torrent of solace and delight. He tilts until the sliver of space between them is closed, lips brushing. “I love you, too.”  


End file.
